What I wanted to… talk about, I guess, or ask you all, today is… am I really that scary? Or maybe I’m just more direct than everyone else?

You see, in a short period of time, two very similar incidents have happened. In both cases I believed to be behaving okay, to be well within the unwritten lines of proper behaviour. Only to get called out for my actions.

And no, not called out directly, but finding out through others, or by an accidental quirk, that someone has a huge problem with my actions. Twice in a row people prefer trashing me behind my back, criticizing my words or my actions, without letting me know.

How ’bout you come to me and say “hey, is [imagined problem that's getting their panties in a twist] really how you meant it? ‘Cause that what it felt like to me”? How ’bout letting me know you have a problem with me? How ’bout stopping to talk crap about me behind my back while pretending to be all holier-than-thou political correctness yourself? How ’bout it?

I prefer to know. Funny me, but I do. So just grow up and talk up.
(oh, and if you do know someone’s badmouthing me behind my back, please tell me. I have no problems with people not liking me. As long as I know about it.)

Okay, so I just got abandoned into a hotel suite in Copenhagen by my Dear ol’ dad. Apparently he was “needed”. So it was time for me to do some soul searching. How’s that all connected, you might ask. Well, mes petites, through this little link called “my dad’s underling”. He was rather cute, you see, and I hadn’t met him before. So of course I tried to appear as adorable and charming as I could. And then, when I was left alone, I checked my blogroll. And if someone had answered my earlier comments in a discussion. (more details in a moment, to explain that one.)

Which brought to mind what H said about me back in St. Barts. That while I don’t care about whether people like me or not, I want people to fall in love with me.

The annoying thing about H is that she knows me. Like, really knows me. And when she says something like that, you can bet your favourite pair of Louboutins she’s right. As she was in this case. I do want people to, if not fall madly in love with me as that’s highly potential stalker material, to be absolutely fascinated by me.

Why is that? Was I left with too little attention as a child? Was I made to work for affection? Do I feel like I have to earn people’s good opinion of me, their interest in me? Do I feel that what am I, when I’m not “being ii”, is not enough to make them like me?

Recently I’ve been involved in some pretty lively discussions with some people, some of which I know, but not all. And this all has happened on the blog of someone I like. Not as in “wish to shag senseless”, after all, there’s BF, but I do wish to become a good friend of this person. He interests me, and I hope to get to know him better. For clarity’s sake, let’s call him Boots.

Well, as I checked the blog in which we’ve been having these lively conversations, I noticed that Boots hadn’t reacted to my comment. And I wondered: why not? Why aren’t you paying me attention? What am I doing wrong, why don’t you like me?

How silly is that?!?

I have been called funny and smart and I’ve received all kinds of praise, even in that blog, from people who both know and don’t know me. It’s nice to get compliments. But after a while, when you do get them, you start craving for them, or for them to lead into something. If I’m so funny and clever and whatnot, why aren’t you paying more attention to me, Boots?!

Which is incredibly childish. But in line with H’s theory that I must have everyone fall in love with me.

I should go back to therapy, shouldn’t I?

What with the recent events, into which I won’t go here, sufficient to say several forms of shit have hit the fan, and with everything else that’s going on, I’ve learned something important about myself.

I get worried and anxious and majorly stressed-out, but I can still function.

This is interesting. The slightest cold takes me down like the grand piano in cartoons, but anxiety? No sweat. I don’t even lose sleep. When something hurts, I’m useless, but when ten things fall on your head, I’m sorting it out and making plans.

Interesting. And good to know.

Oh, and Teddy hurt his leg. Nothing serious, just a little scratch. Nothing a Hello Kitty band aid can’t fix.

… when walking around town.

1) Black tights (we’re talking less than 40den here) don’t hide the fact that you haven’t shaved your legs since December office Christmas party.

2) The talent of smelling rain half a day in advance is creepy. (I can.)

3) I cannot be trusted to go into a yarn store “just to look”. But I can come out of one without any new yarn. I was proud of myself. Ski Guy, not so.

4) That I can be simultaneously fascinated, disgusted, horrified, amazed and broke-hearted about one thing. (I’m reading about Katrina and New Orleans, you see.)

Just to name a few.

Okay, so I though I’d tell you stories. It’s about time, I know. But. I decided to talk about myself instead. Quelle surprise!

With too much things going on at the moment, I’m feeling very overwhelmed. I’m exhausted. On top of all those things (to which I’ll get in a moment) I’m off any reasonable sleeping rhythm, and I’m stressing completely random things for some weird reason. Like, that I maxed out my credit card. Which is not important, as I have another, and can pay them both off if I need to. But until the bill gets here (read: is automatically payed for from my account), it’s maxed out, unless I actually do something. And for some reason this is stressing me out to no end.

What I have to do, then? Well, there’s school work. I still need to graduate, remember? So there’s an essay on using your non-native language (in this specific instance Finnish) in a working environment, with a questionnaire to be sent out and so on. There’s an essay on French wine industry. There’s the development essays I still haven’t turned in (one on South African economy, one on food price crisis). There’s few exams (micro and macro) in a week. There’s econometrics essay (and the other essay and exercises and the bigger assignment I still haven’t received).

And there’s the thesis. Although, to my defence, every time I sit in my car for any period of time longer than 10 minutes, my mind turns to my thesis, and I start working that out. So really, all I have to do is sit my butt down and WRITE IT!

On top of this all, I’m throwing a party to Funny Friend. I was roped into helping with the Student Union play outfits, so I have about 8 dance tops and 9 tunics to sew. (I hate the fabric the tunics are from, it’s really annoying to sew.)

I’m trying to get the design thing off the ground.

There’s a huge pile of laundry I need to iron. And I still haven’t thrown away enough stuff to give me a piece of mind.

I’m ranting. I’m complaining. I’m being boring. I know. I’m sorry. I’ll tell you stories the next time.

- Generation Kill on DVD. I love that show. I don’t want to get the book and read that, most likely, as I’m not too keen on reading the gory details. But I love the show. And while I’m getting all confessional and all, I might as well admit that I find the Marine battle gear totally sexy. Not in a “oooh, that’s a big gun!” way, but I think it’s hot when the guys are all decked out in their gear. I think that gives us Reason 462 on Why ii Should Never Join The Military. I’d jump half the guys as soon as I make visual contact with them.

- Milk. I have to get milk, I’m completely out. And no store is open tomorrow, and I need my daily coffee in a pace that cannot be achieved without the cooling effect of a dash of milk. ‘Add milk, drink more coffee faster’, you know?

- on that note: Food. I’m out. Someone’s eating all my food around here.

- Time. I have too much to do, no self-discipline to speak of, and way too little time to do it. You do the math.

- Henry back. Ski Guy still has my camera, after Val d’Isere, and I really need to get it back.

That’s what they say, anyways. If you ask me, I’m more inclined to think that it’s also the early worm that gets eaten, but no, you never ask me, do you? You should, really.

No no, it’s few minutes past 6AM, and I’ve been up for about 20 minutes now. And in my desperate attempt to stay awake I’ve re-loaned few books from the school library (conveniently done online, of course!), I’ve paid my cell phone bill, replied to Chimmy, checked the BCF and my email, caught up on Grant Miller Media (loved the piece on same-sex marriages being legalised in Sweden, btw!)…

Second cup of coffee on the way.

I hate mornings, everyone knows that. They also know that I’m not really a people-person before I’ve had my caffeine fix. And I hate getting up. The actual process of getting up, out of the bed, annoys me to no end. It’s so comfortable there, warm and soft and cocooned. The outside world is cold and harsh and one has to do things there. I much prefer staying under my blanket, thank you!

BF has perfected the “wake up ii”-routine. To see the brilliancy of his method, let me start by explaining how my early morning wake-ups usually go.

About 30 minutes before I actually have to get up, the first alarm sounds off. The snooze button has an 8-minute wait. There’s also one other alarm clock set to go off around that period (well, approximately, as it’s a bit of a gamble, you never know exactly when it goes. It doesn’t really go off when you set it to. But it’s cute!). In addition to that, there’s several reminders on my phone with varying intervals. The phone, together with the Random Clock are kept on a self away from my bed, so that I need to get off the bed to turn them off.

Eventually I do get up, after hitting the snooze for half and hour or so. I stumble, shivering (aren’t you always cold when you get up? why is that??) into the kitchen, where, if I’ve been smart, I have coffee ready, as my maker has a timer. Alternatively I wait, hand on coffee pot handle, for my first cup. After I get my first cup of steaming hot coffee, I get on the computer and pretend to do something (like, you know, play Spider Solitaire and call it ‘being productive’) until the caffeine has woken up my brain enough for me to go get dressed.

Now, the BF-way of doing this: When the alarm goes off, he gets up and goes make coffee, leaving me to bed. I usually don’t even notice this. He brings me a cup of coffee, only because he’s evil he puts it on a shelf so close that I can smell it, yet too far to reach without getting out of the bed. After I’ve had the first cup in bed, I’m more fit to make it to the kitchen where he’s making toast and reading the online papers and just being his regular ray of frigging sunshine. The plan is brilliant. It works. It’s also very very evil.

My goddaughter and her Teddy Bear had my favourite method by far, though. They sneaked up to me, shouted out “there’s coffee!”, the Teddy (yes, the Teddy, don’t ask) thrust a bagel in my face: “and bagels!” What can I say, I’m a sucker for bagels. Of course, “there’s coffee. And bagels!” became our new catch phrase after that. *laughs*

I don’t have any bagels.

You know those home facial masks that set onto your face into a solid filmy layer? That you then have to peel off?

I love those!

I put on a slightly thicker layer than necessary just so it’s almost painful to peel it off.

Just thought I’d tell you all.

I’m drinking BonAqua, trying not to die while attempting to go take a shower… Yes, you guessed it, I stopped by at the gym. I decided to go to one of the, oh what are they? classes? No no, erm… instructed work-outs? Yeah, that’ll do. Anyways, I went to one of those, one targeting lower body, and I think I’ll just roll up on the floor and die. Or no, that’s too much work. I can’t move from the chair I’m sitting in.

I have to say, I don’t really have any body issues. I look good. And I sure am getting enough attention from the opposite sex, I don’t look ridiculous in tight trousers, and I can pull of small tops and minis (though never at the same time). So this is all more about getting into better shape, getting more energy and maybe a bit firmer. Not buff, not loose weight, but to be more fit. You know? It’s about how I feel, not about how I look.

So what I learned today? I have fairly okay leg muscles. They didn’t die until after the class. And my butt is awesome! However, I have absolutely, completely and utterly useless abs. Seriously. All I managed to do while doing the ab workout was to get my neck sore. I hate abs.

I hate working out. Except pilates. That’s nice.

I should go take that shower before I die.

… to the Facebook SuperPoke Pets application. I have a little puppy called Hugo. He’s really cute. And considering I chat on the phone with a teddy bear, did you really expect me to NOT get attached to this thing?